


It's What You Choose That Counts, In The End

by vorkosigan



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Civil War Fix-It, Clint Is a Good Bro, Crack Treated Seriously, Dress Up, Everyone is a good bro, Everyone is there, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Halloween, Hogwarts Houses Discussion, Holidays, Kamala only makes an appearence at the end, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Reconciliation, So feel free to skip, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve/Tony in the Second Chapter, Team Feels, Team Feels in the First Chapter, Tony Angst, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8444419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorkosigan/pseuds/vorkosigan
Summary: A belated Halloween fluff fic (no horror, just dressing up). 

The Avengers are (re)assembling, if for one evening only. There's nothing Tony wouldn't do for his little mentee Kamala Khan. This time Kamala is throwing a Halloween party and her greatest wish is for the Avengers to be there, all together and friends again. Well, Tony is no miracle worker, but he's managed to convince everyone to at least show up and to dress up in Hogwarts robes too, since it's a Harry Potter themed party (wait, maybe he is a miracle worker, after all).


It's the first time since the Civil War that they all find themselves in the same place, at the same time. Tony is nervous, but he's a big boy, he can deal. Or he can until Steve shows up. 


The first chapter: team assembling, team feels, a shitton of discussion of who chose what Hogwarts house and why. Also, everyone is in shock that Tony is going as a Hufflepuff. 

The second chapter is all Steve/Tony, so if that's what you want, you can skip straight to there. 

 

Basically it's crack, but it's, eh, melancholic and a little sad and not funny.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eh. I honestly don't know. I wanted to write a funny story about the Avengers dressing up for Halloween, but it turned out all melancholy. 
> 
> No Stony in this chapter. Actually, no Steve at all. But the second chapter will be all Steve and Tony interaction, and it will be up either tomorrow or the day after.

"Would you remind me again why I am doing this?"

 

Natasha was staring at her reflection in one of the many glass surfaces in the Tower vestibule. She adjusted her green-striped tie and arched an eyebrow, highly unimpressed with her reflection.

 

"The green details flatter your eyes." Tony was staring at the bar longingly.

 

"Don't you flirt with me, Stark."

 

He flipped her off – although her back was turned, she could surely see his reflection – then sighed. "God, Nat, do I need a drink."

 

"You can't." Her tone was brusque, but when she turned to look at him, he saw a small smile that wasn't all icicles. "You can't show up at a kid's Halloween party smelling of booze."

 

"They are _sixteen_ ," Tony whined. "They'll be sneaking booze _in_." He shrugged, deciding staring at the bar won't make anything better, so he started to walk over to Natasha's side, but thought better of it and went and half-sat at an arm of a chair, curling one leg in. "Jesus, Nat, I'm..."

 

"Nervous?"

 

Tony just shrugged.

 

"Didn't you, like... want to do this?" she inquired, walking over and sitting in a chair opposite. "You made me sit through eight children's movies in two days, because _research._ "

 

Tony rolled his eyes. "You _liked_ them. I could _tell_."

 

She deliberately treated him with a very slow blink. "I," she said, "liked Alan Rickman."

 

"You said the dragons were cool and that Minerva McGonagall sort of reminded you of Fury," he countered with a small smile.

 

All had not been quite right between him and Nat ever since Leipzig, and neither of them had exactly apologized for what they did or said. Out of nowhere, though, Natasha had come to pick him up in Siberia; then disappeared again. Tony then helped clear her, and Natasha came back to him, and told him she would like to stay, if he would accept her. And he wanted to say no, and he wanted to say go to hell, and he wanted to say I don't trust you, but the truth was, he still kind of did (or whatever passed for 'trust' these days, anyway). She had let him see the sadness in the set of her lips; and is it really manipulation, in any case, if someone lets you glimpse the emptiness inside, the emptiness that's undeniably there, even though you know they could very efficiently hide it? And it wasn't just that she was among the last people he had left. His reluctant 'yeah, okay' had somehow cemented something between them. At one point they started letting the other one see the despondency inside, and it was a relief.

 

He had also seen the others in the meantime. He had to. Officially they were working together again. Well. Officially _officially_ they were two completely separate teams with completely separate tasks, but some communication was unavoidable, since a _lot_ of coordination was necessary. Tony had decided to be very professional about all of it, and he had followed through.

 

They had not been all together, all in the same room, for a very long time.

 

"I'm doing this because..." he began, deciding to skip all the banter and go back to her real question he had ducked so nicely before. "Kamala is... I mean, you'll see." He smiled a fond little smile. "If it weren't such a cliché, I'd say she's like a force of nature. But it's a cliché, so I won't. She cares so much, Natasha; about everything. And I read her file, and it tells you nothing, but when I started mentoring her..." He had been studying the glass table between them, as he spoke. After Ultron, he had had all the furniture replaced with exactly alike pieces. It didn't work, really It just didn't look the same (it never could, could it?). Tony raised his eyes and looked straight at Natasha. She looked younger than her thirty something, in that damn Slytherin uniform. "Nat, do you know what fanfiction is?"

 

"I'm aware that it exists. Tony... are you okay?"

 

Tony waved the question off. "She writes fanfiction about us. Kamala does. On a site called _Freaking Awesome._ All about how we made up and are all friends again and hanging together again. Having tearful reunions. Or watching movies together and shit. Nat, I went and read it." He shrugged unapologetically. "At the start of each story she always posts these little notes, like 'I cried as I wrote this. I wish it could happen IRL'."

 

Natasha was sitting very still, looking at him intently. What he read in her eyes was worry and the usual sadness that was ever there of late. Also something else that he couldn't really pinpoint.

 

"So she asked you to invite us all to her Harry Potter themed party, right?“, she said, "And you promised we'd be there." A corner of her lips jerked upwards. "Looking like... this." She waved at her Hogwarts uniform as if it were the most ridiculous thing in the world. "God, I hate dressing up."

 

"Nat, you're a spy, get over it. Look, she was afraid only two or three friends of hers would show up." Tony shook his head in fond exasperation at his protégée.

 

Natasha actually laughed out – a short, almost gentle sound; Tony loved surprising it out of her sometimes (maybe two or three times, all in all, during these cursed months). "Now that she's out as Ms. Marvel? Jesus, Tony, she'll have _crowds_ showing up uninvited."

 

"I think we can take care of that, don't you?" he said dryly, but he smiled a little with his eyes, because Natasha had actually agreed to do this thing with him, and he appreciated it, he really did.

 

***

They were supposed to meet here, at the Tower, and then go all together. That was what they agreed.

 

Clint arrived first, complete with a pointy hat under his arm, a green and silver wooly scarf hanging loosely over his robes. His set, solid, expressionless face melted into something softer and sadder when he spotted Nat, who rose and went to meet him half way. And then he transformed it again, into something resembling a smile.

 

_"Are you and Barton okay?" Tony had asked her at some point, and she had closed up, like she tended to do when you asked her personal questions. Then, later, she had said "It's just not the same as before, it can't be. I helped put him in that jail." And then, even later. "Clint and I are talking. Well, kind of."_

 

For a moment the two of them just stood there, looking at each other, and then, like stop motion in Tony's mind, thy were suddenly standing not two feet apart from each other. Nat reached out, and Clint caught her wrists in his hands, gently. Their arms hung like that for a moment, between them. And then they were hugging, tightly, and Clint's eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched up, like Tony had never seen him before; and Tony couldn't see Nat's face, just her back, but for a moment he thought her shoulders were shaking.

 

As a matter of fact, Tony had thought it would go just like this, when the two finally met again. He had also been prepared to fight off a stab of jealousy, but right now he actually had trouble deflecting a _smile_ that wanted out, of all things, as well as some very unwelcome wetness in his eyes. He turned away and went to pour himself a drink, then remembered he wasn't supposed to, so he just fiddled with shit behind the bar. God, he hated himself sometimes. He was doing this for Kamala, not for... this. Jeez.

 

Barton was coming towards him; Tony was prepared for this too, he was. Some time ago he'd replaced his _professional charm (tm)_ with _professional seriousness (tm)_ , to be used with business partners or former teammates or whoever. It was the face he was using now. He had seen Barton twice since the rest of the team had got back and the present arrangement was made. Both times they had concentrated strictly on the mission at hand. Contrary to his expectations, Barton had been the easiest of all to work with (maybe because Tony had never been really close with him). And now he was coming his way to say hi, trying on a tentative half-smile; but Tony was not smiling. So Barton stopped, swallowed, accepted the proffered hand, and they shook.

 

"Hi, To...", he stammered, came to a halt, changed his mind, then, "Star..."

 

And Tony wanted to break the handshake off, he was so uncomfortable; but that would have made it all even worse than it already was. What he did instead was blurt: "Yeah, as if all this isn't bad enough, please do call me _Toaster_ from now on!"; and his face somehow relaxed into a smirk. And, almost at the same time (just as that surprised half-laugh of hers escaped Natasha's lips – _good God, twice in one day!_ ), Barton was saying: "Why the hell are you dressed as a Hufflepuff? Fuck's sake."

 

And somehow, the whole mess was a tiny little bit more bearable all of a sudden.

 

Tony squared his shoulders, fake-glaring at him. "If you didn't get the memo", he stated, "I'm loyal and hardworking. So. Why the hell are you a Slytherin?"

 

"Because, newsflash, Stark, I'm an assassin. The other houses won't have us. Why aren't _you_?"

 

"An assassin?"

 

"A _Slytherin_."

 

If all had been actually okay between them, Tony might have let the silence prolong and just stared at him and made him as uncomfortable as possible. Barton, however, seemed uncomfortable enough as it was, for all his jokiness and bluster. And in a corner of his eye, Tony caught a glimpse of Natasha, looking at both of them intently, as if keeping an eye on an unexploded bomb. So he just shrugged and leaned nonchalantly against the bar. "I've never done very well with sly and underhanded. Even when I'd wanted to."

 

"Not to mention subtle," Natasha threw in, arching an eyebrow.

 

"I'd be flipping you off, but can't be bothered to raise my hand," Tony said. "Please consider yourself flipped off." God, it felt so good to have Nat by his side.

 

"Well, as I see it," Clint went on, and Tony had no idea why the guy was pushing it, why continue this conversation at all, "it's not so much about slyness, it's about the end justifying the means, no? If the end's actually worthy. And not having to always play nice." Clint was gazing at his face closely, and Tony suddenly wasn't sure which one of them he was actually talking about here. "I keep having to remind the kids Harry could have been a Slytherin," Barton added, and then he grinned.

 

"Now, here", Tony said. "I'm not saying Slytherins are _bad_."

 

"They aren't! But Lila still barely let me leave the house wearing green."

 

"I'm just saying it's not very me," Tony continued. "Or, for that matter, Barton, not very _you._ "

 

Natasha was just shaking her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "I had to send Clint a picture of myself in this ridiculous outfit in order to convince Lila I'm being a Slytherin too. Then she caved."

 

"Wait, what?" Tony said, pushing himself off of the bar he was leaning against and walking around it. "How come he gets a picture of you in a school uniform and I don't?" He shot her a mock insulted look. "Since Natasha won't let us drink, does anyone maybe want a fucking mocktail or something?"

 

"No reason for jealousy, Tony", Natasha drawled. "You're the one that actually got me to dress up."

 

"I'll take that mocktail," Clint said with some relief. "Nothing sweet, and put a lot of tabasco in, thanks. Also, what do you mean I'm not a Slytherin, of _course_ I'm a Slytherin, and so are you, by the way, if you ask me."

 

"Just for the record, I also thought Tony would make a fine Slytherin, not that I care," Nat threw in (which was true, yes; she'd dedicated the whole of thirty seconds trying to convince him to pick the 'cool' house.)

 

"Oh come on, Barton, you're a textbook Hufflepuff."

 

"Am not!" he said indignantly. "I'm a Slytherin with Nat, Nat and I are Slytherin buddies. We Slytherin together!"

 

"I don't think that's a verb."

 

The barely perceptible light that glowed out of Natasha's eyes at this, like tiny specks of stars, made all this worth it, Tony thought as he poured some extra tabasco into Clint's throat-burner in a margarita glass. And she raised her hand and touched Clint on the elbow, and he gave her his stupid big smile, and all Tony could think to mutter was: "Hufflepuff."

 

"Lila also thinks he's a Hufflepuff," Nat said. "Just for the record."

 

Clint rolled his eyes. "And so does Cooper. I'm kinda glad my kids see me that way, but they're kinda biased."

 

"Hey, maybe you're somewhere in between," Tony allowed grudgingly, because all this was making him feel uncomfortably soft about the world in general. And he remembered the times he himself would have had grinned sharply, keenly, and dressed up as a Slytherin, at least out of spite. Hell, he'd almost done it even now. "Well, maybe me too, I guess," he allowed.

 

"I'll have you know," Clint declared, "the correct term would be Slytherpuff."

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I'm literally unable to believe we're having a serious discussion about all this. It's not as if the division criteria make any kind of sense."

 

***

 

Peter was the next to arrive – Tony had expected him to go directly to Kamala's, but maybe there was a certain coolness factor in arriving together with a bunch of Avengers, and maybe he was just too nervous to go all by himself. Tony had managed to forget how it was, being sixteen – for the most part at least – but a vaguely remembered feeling of constant, unrelenting embarrassment about everything was still lurking somewhere in the back of his mind.

 

Peter was wearing a perfunctory face mask, red with a spiderweb pattern, since he hadn't officially revealed his identity,  but was otherwise dressed very Gryffindorly, as Tony had suspected he would be. What he also suspected would happen was this: "Hey man, Mr. Stark. What the heck are you doing in yellow and black? You are not a badger, you're Iron Man! You _have_ to be a Gryffindor. You _would_ _have_ been!"

 

Rhodey's prompt arrival, however, saved Tony from further discussion. His prosthetics were all but invisible under the robes; Tony watched him walk across the room towards him, and was happy to register his own feeling of guilt had almost completely given way to pride. Thankfully. Guilt had seemed self-serving and very unfair to Rhodey.

 

Rhodey gave him a quick hug, then held him at arms length for a moment and gave him a tight-eyed, disapproving up-and-down. "Okay, what the hell now?"

 

"What?", Tony said innocently.

 

"I seem to remember a drunken night when you elaborated for hours upon _hours_ why and how you were actually a Ravenclaw and so, according to you, was _I_ , because, and I quote, I wouldn't have gotten a full scholarship to MIT without being one hell of a Ravenclaw, whatever my feelings on the matter."

 

"Er..." Tony said. "I think I remember the night you mean, yes."

 

"What, really? It's a _miracle_ that you do."

 

"He's not a Ravenclaw, he's totally a Gryffindor!" Spidey peeped up, and Rhodey regarded him for a second, and then: "Yes, maybe now, but you should've seen how nerdy he was in college, before he picked up this fake cool front."

 

"Actually, it's supposed to be about what you choose, not what you..." Tony began, but suddenly, they were all talking over each other, and Peter was saying: "Well, okay, so maybe he's somewhere in between...", and Clint was saying "That would be 'Gryffinclaw', but we actually already agreed he was a Slytherpuff", and Rhodey was saying "What the fuck, man, I dressed up in this shit because of you, I'm almost fifty, I must be crazy, doing this. I thought we would at least be in the same house. Look, I've even found a uniform with bronze instead of silver, because _books_ _blah blah_ , and then you go and change allegiances...", and Natasha was saying "Which is actually a very Slytherin thing to do, when you think about it, although I still think this is stupid...". And Tony for once didn't feel a need to say anything. He was just standing there, mildly happy.

 

The next one to arrive was Wanda – and not only dressed as a Ravenclaw, as a matter of fact. She had died her hair platinum blonde, and had even put on big corkscrew earrings. Tony did say hi, despite the intense discomfort he always felt around the woman. He was very happy that she promptly retreated to a corner with Vision (apparently also a Ravenclaw; those two had probably coordinated) and especially happy that he himself _didn't_ pick up a dark blue tie in the end.

 

And then there was Bruce. Bruce, in Ravenclaw colors as any self-respecting scientist would be. Friday had quietly informed Tony Quinjet 1 was being parked many floors above them, and that the elevator was coming down. And he was so choked with emotion he couldn't even speak, and he embraced Bruce tightly, _Jesus Christ_ , _so_ tightly, as tightly as he possibly could (Bruce had actually groaned and muttered _let go, Tony_ ). Because, he hadn't seen Bruce in years, _years_ , and the man looked _exactly_ the same. It was almost a crime.

 

They had chatted at least once a week in the past year and a half, though, sometimes almost every day. Bruce was angry with him, and then he was less angry, and then he was just... well, _Bruce_ , agonizing over everything and anything and trying to disappear into his work.

 

Tony thought he felt Nat's steely gaze drill into the back of his neck, and he wondered if keeping this from her as a 'surprise' had been such a good idea. Turning around, looking at her face? No, definitely _not_ a good idea at all. He grimaced with his mouth, just slightly, and mouthed 'sorry', but she just shook her head a tiny bit and shrugged one shoulder noncommittally. So Tony knew she wasn't really angry with him at least (he couldn't bear that, he couldn't).

 

He watched as Nat and Bruce's eyes met for a moment, across the room, and one side of Bruce's mouth twitched unhappily, and he looked away. And in the next moment, he was looking at Tony again, saying. "Tony, how are you? And why are you... Aren't _these_ the nerd colors?" He pointed towards his own tie vaguely. "Did I get it wrong?"

 

Tony laughed out. "No, no, those are the nerd colors, you're okay."

 

"So what are those?" This, with a slight frown and a shake of his head, pointing both hands in Tony's direction.

 

" _You might belong in Hufflepuff/Where they are just and loyal/Those patient Hufflepuffs are true/And unafraid of toil_.“ Clint's voice was quoting from Tony's left. "Hey, Banner. Long time, no see." He shook his hand.

 

"Oh, it's the loyal kids, then?" Bruce said. "That's okay too, I guess."

 

" _Why_ does he know that poem by heart, _why_?" Rhodey was wondering aloud from Tony's right. "Hey, Banner. How's things?"

 

"I know it by heart because I have _kids_ ," Clint said indignantly.

 

"You mean you have a lame _excuse_." (That was Lang, who'd arrived in the meantime, pretty much unnoticed as per usual, the poor guy. Another Ravenclaw, for whatever reason – Tony didn't really know him. It was pretty funny, he mused, how so few of the supposedly heroic people here actually considered themselves Gryffindors; and how many of them rather dubbed themselves 'smart' or 'nerdy' than 'noble' and 'brave'.)

 

"I _mean_ ", Clint was saying, "if you had to read it aloud as many times as I did, over the years, you'd..."

 

"Hey," Peter interrupted him with a grin. "Parenting done right."

 

Tony let the conversation drift around him in wisps and strings, and sipped his mocktail without much relish, wishing it weren't only tabasco, but hey. Pieces of dialogue were meandering and floating around him like a river, like a cloud, and he felt strangely lightheaded, almost happy, almost warm, with all of them there. It wasn't the old times, of course it wasn't, but if he closed his eyes for a moment and just listened to the voices, he could kind of pretend it was.

 

A part of Tony registered Bruce had left Clint, Rhodey and Peter to argue, and drifted off to a side, towards Nat. And they were gazing in each other's face, and Tony felt looking any closer would pretty much be an intrusion.

 

Which is exactly the moment the three Gryffindors picked to arrive. Tony shook Sam's hand no problem. He didn't have a bone to pick with Sam. Hell, he actually had a tiny collection of fuzzy-like feelings for Sam after all that business at the Raft, when all of his ~~friends~~     ~~supposed friends~~ ~~teammates~~ ~~actually mostly Clint~~   _everyone_ had kicked him in the teeth, and Sam gave him the only vote of confidence that day. _Even though_ he didn't really know him. Or _because_ he didn't, Tony mused. No, no, water under the bridge, let it go. Hell, he'd thought he was over all of that, he had to move on. He had thought he could do this. No way to change his mind now.

 

He smiled at Sam, Sam smiled back, and that was it. Easy.

 

Not so easy with his next guest. Thankfully, Barnes had cut his hair and he was clean shaven, which made him look younger, and a lot less like a murder machine or a maniac. Tony could see him steel himself, force himself to look Tony straight in the eyes. Tony forced himself to look back. And he was suddenly, acutely aware that what lived behind those eyes was not, _really_ not, the same thing that was there when the murder of his parents took place. And he allowed himself to let go of something that had been choking him for a long time; and he closed his eyes for a second, and directed a barely perceptive nod at Barnes, and then he actually shook his hand, he actually did. And Tony knew he could get through this night unbroken.

 

Which all went down the drain when he finally looked at Steve's face.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished writing this, and while it's probably not a good idea to post something so quickly, without letting it rest or settle, I still want to do it. So here, have some Stony. Happy belated Halloween <3

It's weird, Tony mused. When you first meet someone, you almost unconsciously sort them as hot or not, as pretty, or having interesting features, or, you know, not. Even if you don't want to. At least he knew he did that. And then, as you get to know the person, these qualifiers just fade into gray, just disappear somewhere in the background. You simply know every feature, every crease, every – goddamn – flicker of the eyelashes or tilt of the head or angle of the cheekbone. And attributes like 'pretty' or 'not pretty' don't even apply any longer, because it's _their_ face you are looking at, the familiar face, the _good_ face you know so well.

 

Tony couldn't stand to look at Steve any more.

 

For months after Siberia, every time he saw him – in pictures (before he had deleted them all) (and then regretted it), or even in dreams – all Tony could think of was the tenacious, desperate anger in those eyes when Steve finally lost it, there in the White (precisely when Tony was beginning to come back to himself; in any other situation, he might have appreciated the irony).

 

They had done three missions together, since the semi-reassembling. These gigs had just proven how good the two of them could be at non-verbal communication if it meant they could avoid talking to each other. And then once, afterwards, they had actually talked. Maybe a year ago. Or, more accurately, Steve had talked, and Tony had nodded mechanically, and said _yeah_ , and _it's okay, Rogers_ , and _we'll learn to work together again_. It would have been a heart to heart, Tony supposed, if only he had had any heart left at that point.

 

All he could see around Steve was white, still, and that was that.

 

But now, here... It was actually the first time after a year and a half that Tony saw him outside his combat suit, without that damn face piece on. And, good God, he was so _Steve_ , with his stupid kind eyes and his dear features, just standing there, arms hanging by his sides as if he wanted to cross them but held himself back, expression all straight and stoic. Resolute to bear any punitive measures or, worse, social niceties Tony might want to inflict upon him.

 

Tony just shut down then, he just shut down. He wasn't sure he was even blinking. He stood there like a monument to shitty lost friendships or something, he thought. He didn't feel anything. The emotions had just stopped and now he was empty.

 

Nat pushed her way past him, gently, bumping her shoulder against his in the process. She didn't have to, there was enough room. And, the funniest thing of all was, this reassurance worked. Tony shook his head slightly, as if shaking off a dream, and he could move again. Emotions weren't coming back, though. Which was okay, he appreciated the void, it was almost a blessing.

 

Natasha had positioned herself between him and Steve in an unmistakably protective gesture, although, superficially, it seemed like she'd just come to say hi. That was exactly what she was doing now, bobbing her head a little as she spoke affable words (but she didn't hug Steve; she never even touched him).

 

All of a sudden, Tony felt himself moving forward, felt his hand being shaken in Steve's without actually feeling it, without being aware of the touch of skin on skin. And he heard himself say things like "Hey, Cap" and "How's everything?" and "Gryffindor, eh, who would have thought, eh?" and (for some reason) "Yeah, heard the November will be rainy, though."

 

_What Steve had said at the end of that talk, a year ago, was a tired, resigned, unimpressed: "All right, Tony. Have it your way, then. I just thought... Have it your way." And that was that._

And now, here... Tony felt his lips stretch, move like an industrial loom, of their own volition. And he apparently said something about them all having to leave in half an hour or so if they were to make it to the party on time, and how he himself had a few things to finish yet, but 'you kids go ahead, have fun, I'll be back in no time'. And he disappeared into the elevator; it was just like sinking into the ground when the door slid closed behind him. He went into his office, and he sank into the chair and let his face fall against the cold, glassy surface of the desk, plastered his forehead to it, squishing his nose; and he just stayed that way for he didn't know how long.

 

***

 

In a haze, Steve greeted Rhodey, who was basically the only person he knew and didn't see on a regular or a semiregular basis. Except for Natasha of course, but Natasha had surfaced for a moment, just to disappear again. And, well, Viz, but he seemed busy. And – apparently – Bruce, whom Steve definitely didn't expect to see here, and he was glad to, he really was, it was just...

 

He extracted himself as soon as he could, then hid behind the bar, fussing, pretending to look for a nonalcoholic beer, as his insides twisted and untwisted.

 

It was good to see everyone together like this. He looked over the room, and people were mingling and laughing and maybe it was all still tentative, but it was happening. He knew he should be happy. He was. He _probably_ was. But all he had wanted was to see Tony, actually _Tony_ , even if Tony glared at him, even if he wouldn't say a word to him, or yelled, even if... Whatever. He couldn't, couldn't _stand_ this... this LMD-like person that had taken his friend's place, and was now saying words in his voice, radiating charm. When Tony radiated charm at you, you could be sure he either hated you or didn't give a shit about you, and Steve didn't know which was worse.

 

_No._

 

He remembered that poem he'd read so long ago, the one that he often quoted to himself during the war. _Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold._

 

_No._

 

He'll be damned if he lets Zemo have the last word here; he'll be damned if he lets them crumble from within.

 

Steve had tried before. Failed. Failed. He didn't know what he was doing wrong any more, didn't even know if he could do anything at all, change anything at all. Failed. Had to try.

 

_I can do this all day._

 

***

 

Nat was standing in front of the elevator door, seemingly casual, but very much on guard there, just like the last time. He stopped in front of her, arms hanging lose, shoulders sagging slightly. She compressed her lips. He turned his hands, palms up, then let them fall back down.

 

It was Natasha, Natasha who had taken care of him in her own way ever since the whole SHIELD fiasco, texted with him all the time, always been there for him (and now they had precisely nothing left). She was the person to whom he had sent the coordinates of the Siberian base, afterwards. Steve had learned to live with the sickly feeling of missing her constantly.

 

He had no idea what his face looked like, but she must have seen something there, because her eyes softened.

 

"Natasha..."

 

A beat. Then she twisted her mouth and rolled her eyes at him and shook her head. And it was like something in the air shifted a tad closer to normal.

 

"All right, all _right,_ " she muttered. And stepped aside to let him pass.

 

"Thanks."

 

"Just don't..." She trailed of.

 

"I won't," he promised. As she was passing him by, she stroked his shoulder briefly, and he turned and looked at her as she walked away, and he smiled. It gave him the hope he needed.

 

***

 

"Hey." Steve paused at the door, crossing his arms.

 

"Don't lean on my doorframe, you'll make the whole Tower fall down." Tony sounded tired. Hell, he _looked_ more tired than Steve had ever seen him. Older too, he noticed all of a sudden. There were new lines around his mouth, his eyes. Shit, and those huge eyes too, they looked so vulnerable Steve's innards were tying themselves in knots just gazing at them. There was a burning feeling in Steve's stomach, spreading outwards (he'd have thought he would have gotten used to it by now, but he never had). He wanted to look away. He wanted to plant a tiny kiss on each eyelid.

 

He wanted to be exactly where he was, he suddenly realized, and the realization hit him hard. When will he get over this?

 

"Did you come up here to hide?" Steve asked gently.

 

"Yeah. Why won't you let me?"

 

"From me?"

 

Tony grimaced. "Pretty much, yeah. Sorry."

 

"Look, I didn't have to... You didn't have to..." Steve hesitated.

 

"No, no, I'm actually..." Tony let out a burst of nervous laughter. "Is anyone going to finish at least one sentence here tonight? Here's a new rule: No speaking unless you're sure you can finish the sentence. It applies to everyone. It's like a game." Steve watched him get weirdly animated, like he tended to when he was nervous or insecure, and suddenly he was overcome with a desire to be just a little closer – not to hold Tony, not to touch him, just to lessen the distance between them. So he strode forward, and came halfway around Tony's desk before he stopped himself. Saw Tony twitch back. Leaned his hip against Tony's desk, not quite sitting and not quite standing.

 

"You're sitting on my desk," Tony stated.

 

"Well, not really. Look, Tony..." He trailed of, wondering what he could say.

 

"Whole sentences."

 

Steve let himself grin a little bit. It was weird and uncomfortable and probably nothing good will come out of this, but at least they were _talking_ , and not about missions, and not about reports, and not about weather.

 

"It's nice that you are doing this." Stave waved downwards vaguely, as if meaning to indicate the lower floors and the gathering taking place there.

 

Tony shrugged. "It's for Kamala," he said noncommittally. And then, as if squeezing it out with great difficulty: "It was good of you to come. And..." He waved his hand vaguely towards Steve and, Steve supposed, the robes he was wearing.

 

"Whole sentences," Steve shot back, raising his eyebrows, and ventured another small grin.

 

"I meant to say, without you we wouldn't have any Gryffindors." Tony leaned back in his swivel chair, than pushed himself of a little, and the chair rolled off, maybe a foot or two away from Steve (still, _away._ )

 

"So, why not you?" Steve raised his eyebrows.

 

"What, a Gryffindor?" Tony rolled his eyes. "Don't you start too." He was now turning this way and that in his chair, 90 degrees to the right, then he would push off with his right leg, then all the way to the left, then push off with his left. It didn't look like he was going to stop.

 

"Oh, come on."

 

"Oh, come on what?" Tony glared at him for a moment, then continued rotating.

 

"Oh come on, you're the person dressed in a three piece suit that jumps to stop an armed super soldier, Jesus Christ, Tony."

 

"I had my gauntlet on."

 

"My point exactly. And you jumped straight at that embodiment of Ultron, here in the Tower. Yeah, yeah, you had your screwdriver on you, or an icepick or whatever it was. "

 

"What's your point, Rogers?" Tony stopped swiveling and crossed his arms. It was as if every cell in his body was screaming challenge at Steve. Steve wanted to come over and take him by the shoulders to keep him still for once, and to gaze into those eyes – those damn big, glaring, angry eyes – and... No, screw the rules, better not to finish that sentence. When did this happen? When did it start again? Had it ever stopped, even? He couldn't help but wonder. He thought he was over this, over these feelings, done with these thoughts... They were constricting his chest in an uncomfortable way, and they weren't helping, and it was just... it was out of question now, even if once he had thought that maybe, just maybe... But, no. He had to stop.

 

"You really care about these movies, actually, don't you, Tony?" he asked softly. "They are special to you for some reason. Why?"

 

Tony blinked, caught off balance. He went still. Then he got up, started pacing, never coming quite close to Steve.

 

"How'd you figure that out, though?" he asked.

 

Steve couldn't – _couldn't_ – hold back the fond look he gave Tony, although he knew it wouldn't be appreciated. "All your red and gold armors, over the years?", he said, still smiling. "A dead giveaway."

 

Tony scowled. "Well, I don't feel like that any more," he snapped. "Don't you go and..." he began, stopped.

 

"Whole sentences?" Steve said, but it was more of a tentative request this time. He was threading on thin ice here, he knew. But he had come further away from shore than he had in _years._ And he _liked_ his thin ice well enough anyway.

 

Tony shot him a dark look. "I was trying not to be a dick. But _fine_. Don't pretend you know me. Don't pretend we're buddies. Don't."

 

"We're not buddies," Steve acquiesced. When he'd opened his mouth to speak, he didn't know he'd sound this choked. He winced.

 

Tony closed his eyes briefly. Then, in a softer voice: "We were."

 

Steve got up, came closer, checked himself. "Yeah, we were. And I still _know_ you, whatever you might think." He didn't mean to come off so forceful.

 

"I guess," Tony allowed. He took a deep breath. "It's the books, actually."

 

"What?"

 

"The books," he repeated with mild irritation. "Not the movies. Screw the movies. It's the books. They are important to me. The Harry Potter books. I read them in... shit times. They help. That's all."

 

Steve swallowed. Tony seemed somehow raw, all of a sudden, like an open wound. He usually didn't share this much. It was a tiny bit, but a really _personal_ bit. It was coming out in short, clipped sentences; and Tony was breathing deeply in between. He wasn't really looking at Steve. His eyes were pools of sadness. And then he just went and snapped out of it.

 

"You should read 'em, Rogers." He grinned his normal, sharp, meaningless grin. "You're never too old for Harry Potter."

 

"I... will," Steve promises, earnestly. A sudden sense of loss caught him unawares.

 

Tony gave him a penetrative, measuring look. "What's got into you today?"

 

Steve swallowed. "You'll never forgive me, will you." It wasn't even a question.

 

"I said it was okay."

 

"I know. And you did everything to clear us all before the courts, and to reform the teams and to alter the public image and everything, _everything_." Steve was looking at him desperately, imploringly. "And we're all here today. I _know_ , okay? And we're even talking. But I don't understand. And I miss you, Tony. _Really._ And you know and I know... Tomorrow it will all be back to what it was like yesterday, and you'll go back to not talking to me, and I'll go back to not talking to you, and we'll pretend this talk up here never happened. Because you're hurt, and I know I hurt you, and I don't know what to do about it any more, so I don't. Anything. If only you'd tell me what to _do_. _Is_ there something I can do?"

 

"Yeah, maybe I could set you these three tasks," Tony began very dryly, "and when you've completed them, then we can..." Then he actually looked Steve in the eye, looked away. Covered his face with his hands for a moment, sighed. "Yeah, I'm being an asshole. Newsflash, eh." Tony drummed his fingers on his thigh. "Sorry about that."

 

Steve just stood there, unmoving, and breathed, breathed. "It's all about second chances," he said finally, after the silence between them had run its course. At Tony's inquiring glance, he continued: "Your books, movies. Harry Potter. They're all about second chances. Whoever wants a second chance, gets it. _Whoever._ And you got yours, too, at one point, right..."

 

"And third, and fourth." Tony interrupted.

 

Steve ignored him. "And Nat got hers."

 

"And third. And fourth." Tony repeated, rising an eyebrow. "And Wanda, and many others. So?"

 

"So why not me?" Steve said forcefully. "Why the fuck doesn't the rule apply to me? Tell me!" He knew raising his voice like this wasn't the best idea in the world in that very moment.

 

Tony probably thought so too. He squared his shoulders and glared at him. "You're home. You are on a team. No, you _lead_ your own team. I did _everything_ I could to make that happen, and you can't tell me I didn't because you just told me I did." He stopped, frowned, as if reconsidering his words. "Okay, that wasn't very coherent, but you know what I mean. There's your second chance. So." In a sharp, jerky motion, he nodded his head upward, at Steve, eyes blazing.

 

Steve relaxed his clenched fists. "I meant a second chance with _you_ ", he said softly. And he knew this was a bad idea, but he had to try, he had to at least _know_ he had tried, and if nothing else, he didn't have anything left to lose anyway. "Because, before, I thought... After New York, before Ultron, and even then, I thought... I though there was something between us. Between you and me. I thought something was happening." He was searching Tony's face for any sign of acknowledgement, but Tony just stood there, still, expressionless, unchanged. Steve swallowed. "A... a you-and-me thing." Still nothing. He plowed on. He was _so_ going to regret this. "As in, not just friendship." He thought Tony's eyes had gone marginally wider, but that could mean anything. Steve wanted to shake him, to yell _say something, dammit._ But, because there was no way back, he went on: "Was there? _Wasn't_ there?? Because I still... I... I have feelings, okay? And I know you don't... I... Okay, so at least now you know. At least I told you. Right?"

 

By this point, Tony was breathing audibly, in short gasps. And then he looked away, from Steve, turned away. Took two steps toward the big glass wall and the cityscape beyond it, and just let his head sink against the glass. He said absolutely, definitely nothing.

 

Steve waited. Waited. Then he said: "I should probably go."

 

***

 

"I'm Howard." At first Tony could feel the cool glass against his forehead; then he couldn't. Just his own eyes burning. A vortex of emotions was raging inside him, but it was like a closed circuit, just coursing through him, round and round, consuming him. And in no way could he bypass it, and in no way could he channel it _outward_. He could just stand there, unseeing. "Don't go," he said. And then: "You know, all I wanted was not to be him, but I am. That's exactly who I am. I'm Howard fucking Stark."

 

"What? _How?_ " Steve sounded hoarse, as if in pain.

 

Tony ventured a glance at him. _Now you've fucked it all up forever, Stark_ , he told himself resignedly. All he could do was shake his head. He was surprised how calm he sounded when he spoke up. "Sorry. I keep forgetting your Howard was this warm, fuzzy guy. Well, newsflash, mine wasn't." He didn't mean to hurt Steve like this, he didn't, and he could see Steve was hurting, and he still couldn't utter one single word to make it better...

 

But Steve shook it off valiantly. "The Howard I knew", he said, "was all bluster and brashness and charm. I never really got to know him much better than that. But I don't think you're like him, Tony. Why are you saying that?"

 

"Because..." Tony began and fell silent. He pushed himself away from the glass pane, turned around. Studied Steve, although he didn't really need to. The furrowed brow, the slightly parted lips... he thought he knew the sight better than he knew anything else in the whole world, and all he wanted was to somehow pour out all he felt for him, the good and the bad. To just ride the flood and finally be free. But he couldn't. He took a deep breath. He still sounded comparably calm and collected – like he tended to, when falling apart. "You know – and I wouldn't normally be telling this to anyone, but here you go – when he was alive, he... He never ever said anything passably kind to me, did you know? And I'm not whining here, just for the record. It's simply a fact that needs to be established. He never did anything but crap on my efforts. And then... and then, _decades_ after his death, I find this recording. In which he's telling me all he was unable to say to my face. That he had this unlimited faith in me, in my capabilities. That I was his greatest creation, which probably sounds self-absorbed and horrible, but isn't... For him, it isn't, trust me." Tony noticed he was pacing in front of Steve like a lunatic, two steps in one direction, turnaround, two steps in another, turnaround; hands flying in wild gesticulation.

 

He stopped right in front of Steve, close to him, very close. He was imagining he could feel the warmth radiating from his body. And he stared at Steve with so much intensity he thought his head would explode. Or his chest. It was as if there wasn't enough air in the room for him to breathe. "And that's exactly what I've become. Howard. And I didn't want that. I don't... I don't want to send you fucking letters or whatever, that you'll read after I'm fucking _dead_ , okay? I want to just... say. What I feel. I just want to say it to you, and I can't, I'm unable to, I can't."

 

Tony was all kinetic energy, even when he was standing in one place. Steve was stillness. They were positioned very close to each other, Tony realized all of a sudden. He hadn't been this close to Steve in, well... _years_. If ever. They were all but touching, yet they weren't. It was as if the air between them was bubbling with... something.

 

"Good, bad?" Steve managed.

 

"What?"

 

"What you feel. What you want to tell me. Is it good, bad?" The intensity of Steve's gaze was burning Tony all the way to the ground. He could just nod.

 

He swallowed. "The good, the bad." He was forcing the words out now. " _Everything_ , Steve."

 

Steve had never looked at him like this before. Okay, maybe throughout this whole conversation too. Eyes drilling into Tony's, as if he was pouring all of himself into this gaze, for Tony to see, for Tony to take if he wanted to.

 

And Tony still couldn't say anything real.

 

He was aware of a small spasm quivering on his lips. "I can't... I don't know how to explain... It all comes easy to you, I know you can't understand what I..."

 

And: " _Easy?_ ", Steve whispered hoarsely, forcefully. "Are you _crazy_? I can only say it because I have nothing left to lose here any more."

 

A corner of Tony's mouth twitched again. "So, say it."

 

And Tony was still angry with him, he _was_ , but, good God, it was Steve, so close and alive and warm, and Tony had carried him in his heart for so long that he could hardly remember a time when he hadn't; for so long that all the margins between friendship and desire and love had somehow gotten erased. And right beside him, he had carried this grudge, this rage and hurt, for a year and a half. And he knew he was not supposed to just... to just _forgive_ , but, he wondered: Is it so wrong to want to simply be happy for once in his life, just let go and feel good for a little while?

 

"You say it," Steve whispered back as they stared into each other's eyes. And suddenly, on his upper arms, Tony could feel the touch of Steve's hands. And one was staying right where it was, but the other one was traveling upwards, slowly upwards, towards Tony's shoulder, towards his neck. When it touched Tony's skin, it stopped, lay there, fingertips resting lightly against his neck. And his own palm – and when did that even happen? – was cupping Steve's cheek, so gently, and his thumb was moving this way and that in minuscule, tender motions. " _Say_ it," Steve repeated, more forcibly, almost like an order. And " _No,_ " Tony whispered back, like in some kind of a game or a dance; and this was when he leaned forward and touched Steve's lips lightly with his own, like with a feather, and almost pulled back. But suddenly they were clinging to each other for dear life, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, legs, knees intertwined, all the way down. Tony squeezed his eyes shut, but then he forced them open, because he had to, he had to _see_ , to be sure it was really happening. The kiss deepened, and he inhaled Steve, and he poured all he had, all the years he'd wasted, into that kiss.

 

When they broke it off for a second, Tony asked – and he knew he shouldn't, but he had to: "What about Barnes?"

 

Steve gave him an annoyed look, but shrugged. "Tony, we grew up together. We're like brothers. Don't be ridiculous." He started as if to kiss him again, then changed his mind for a moment. "Also, don't be jealous."

 

"Well," said Tony, all his fingers buried in Steve's hair, "I am."

 

"Well", Steve replied, "tough."

 

Steve crushed him to his chest and started kissing him again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it. Also, the next chapter is not really a chapter, just a short epilogue.
> 
> (Also, 'Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold' is Yeats)


	3. Epilogue

They have to go soon. They are already late. They can barely take hands off of each other as they enter the elevator to go join the others, but they force themselves apart.

 

While they are going down, Tony crosses his arms and arches an eyebrow and spits out: "I love you, you know." It sounds like a full-fledged challenge.

 

And just as the elevator stops, Steve smirks back, his best sarcastic smile in place, and he says: "Yeah, I figured."

 

The others stare at them as they step out of the elevator side by side as if there's nothing strange about it. Then they part ways.

 

"Tony," Steve shouts across the room all of two minutes later. "Me too!" And he grins his dorky grin.

 

But Tony just nods at him impudently and smirks. He yells back: "Yeah, you were pretty obvious about it."

 

***

 

They are all a little late for Kamala's party, but not much. There is a bunch of kids in Hogwarts robes there, but, as far as Tony can see, only Kamala is wearing yellow and black stripes. (Being loyal and hardworking isn't so cool when you're sixteen, he figures. Although, since Ms. Marvel is doing it, it's probably about to become way more popular.)

 

And Kamala runs up to him, and throws her arms around him, enthusiastic like a puppy. "I'm so happy you came! You're one squishy Hufflepuff, Mr. Stark, for real! I knew it!"

 

Tony endures it heroically for all of three seconds, then starts squirming. "It's okay, yeah, fine. Kamala, it's Tony, I told you that you could call me Tony. You can let go now. There's a good girl."

 

He's aware of Steve's fond looks. So is everyone else, he figures. Tony doesn't really care. Natasha looks happy, though, and he _does_ care about that.

 

Steve sneaks up on him as Tony is hiding in the kitchen a little later. "You have that expression on your face," Steve says.

 

"What expression?"

 

"Creating things expression. Tell me you're planning a new suit. Tell me it's going to be in black and yellow."

 

"Oh, you mean the _model 42_ ," Tony says smugly. "Tinkering with it already. Just working out the finer details in my head right now. Also," he adds. "It's black and gold."

 

"Oh, so I _don't know you at all_ , do I?" Steve snarks.

 

"Don't," Tony says. "Don't throw that in my face. We haven't reached that point yet."

 

"Well, I think we have."

 

"Well, we haven't."

 

"Well, I say we have."

 

Tony kisses him to shut him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, this is me, not doing NaNoWriMo. 9 000 words in two days. The first year I'm actually not doing NaNo in I don't know how many years. I don't know what's wrong with me.
> 
> Also, I hope you liked it. Don't forget to let me know what you thought and thank you for reading <3 <3 <3
> 
> (Go ahead and google Tony's armor model 42, it really exists!)


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